Twenty Six Cents
by Ankhutenshi
Summary: Bakura Ryou can't figure out why he can't make things seem normal anymore. Post-series; canon; one-shot; introspective; footnotes. Written August 23, 2006.


**Twenty-Six Cents**

--

Bakura Ryou slipped his sneakers on, zipping his coat up. The morning was brisk and damp, and he knew by the end of his route he would be cold, but he had gotten into the habit of taking early morning walks. He found it refreshing, and he figured it was better than sitting in his room, staring at the alarm clock until it rang. He rarely slept as late at 6AM anymore.

The thin strip of grass that bordered the sidewalk outside his apartment complex was damp, patterned with dew and diamond-like sparkles where the sun struck the droplets. He used to be captivated by sights like those; an icicle dangling from an eavestrough would make him stare for hours. Yet lately he'd found that such things simply couldn't hold his interest for long anymore.

He hadn't been able to find _anything_ that could hold his interest for long anymore, and that included his schoolwork. His grades had suffered, and he found that ironic. He found most everything ironic, these days.

His sneakers left defined footprints on the damp pavement, because he'd bought new shoes and the treads weren't worn in yet. He'd bought a new coat too, a short one that barely came down to his waist. It sometimes left his lower back exposed to the chill, but there was no telltale swish of fabric behind his knees, so the cold was a small price to pay.

Bakura Ryou had bought a lot of new things recently.

He'd bought a new lock for his apartment door, and even though all locks were supposed to come with two sets of keys, he'd insisted only one be cut. He'd bought enough cleaning supplies to begin his own janitorial company, and his eyes still smarted from the harsh chemicals that he'd cleaned each room with. The apartment smelled like bleach and peroxide and solvent, but it covered up the smell of dust and old paper.

When his father's monthly allowance check came, it came with a note asking why he'd received reports of his son entering the museum afterhours. He hadn't come up with a good way to explain it, but he knew if he waited long enough, the man would forget he even asked in the first place. So he waited, and predictably, there was no follow-up.

He'd discovered that the apartment was out of garbage bags, and he'd gone to the store to buy more. He'd come home with the biggest box, some 300 of the black plastic sacks, but when he'd stood in the middle of his living room and cast around desperately for something to toss... nothing was there.

Some kinds of memories just couldn't be put out on garbage day.

It was frustrating.

Bakura Ryou stuffed his hands in his new jacket's pockets, which made the bottom ride up so his spine felt the breeze, and walked on. He couldn't think of a single thing he'd done wrong since coming back from Egypt. By rights, it was not supposed to be easy. But he'd done everything right, and the laws of karmic retribution dictated that he had to get a small reprieve _sometime_, right?

It wasn't a single thing, and that could have been the problem.

The thief was gone, that much was certain. Essence scattered, soul swallowed by the creature called Ammut. There was no record of him, no _ren_ left over. There were no possessions lingering on top shelves or in the back of closets in the apartment. There wasn't even the suspicious glance from his peers, although he certainly wouldn't have blamed them.

He'd removed all traces of that spirit from his life. It felt good, he admitted. Not perfect, but good in a selfish way that he felt he'd earned, if only a little.

His fingers closed around something, one in each pocket, and Bakura Ryou withdrew the small objects in puzzlement.

A quarter, and a penny.

_A quarter for the telephone, a penny for good luck! Put 'em in your pocket so you never get stuck!_ A young girl's voice sang, greeting the sunny afternoon of yesteryear instead of the damp predawn of the present.

Bakura Ryou hesitated. The coins were supposed to be in the same pocket. The song didn't specify that, but the girl had wisely said it was so they could rub together; something about making the results stronger. He'd seperated them into different pockets, because the coin-on-coin sound was too much like the sound of chiming gold.

There was a payphone on the corner up ahead. He approached it slowly, each coin tucked into a tight fist. The cord had, from some previous encounter with an angry caller, been pulled out of the receiver. No one used this booth anymore, and the city would likely never get around to fixing it.

He held the quarter and penny up to eye level, rubbed them together, and slid them into the return change slot. They sat there, a silver and copper offering. He figured at this point, it couldn't hurt.

Bakura Ryou went home. His pockets were not noticably lighter, but his heart was.

--

Author's Notes

(1) _ren_ is the Egyptian word for one's name, which made up one of the 6 parts of the self (the others being the baa, kaa, akh, khajbt, and khat-sahu)  
(2) I made the rhyme up, so please no one say they've heard it before. o.O Feel free to teach it to your children, though.  
(3) American quarters are made out of 8 nickel and 92 copper, but prior to 1965, they were 90 silver and only 10 copper. I went with the older style because both silver and copper were used in ancient Egypt.


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